Finally, Judit said, “I do want to see that shop, Shaindel. And I do want to see the room where people watch those movies.”
Then, Shaindel stopped the swing. She stared right at Judit, looking both comical and daunting. Her sweater had come unfastened over her modest white blouse, and her ponytail was askew. She said, “What will I get if I take you there?”
Judit thought for a minute. Then she said, “You can watch the movies with me.”
That was the right response. Shaindel smiled. She said, “He won’t like that. I’ll have to sneak in. I’m a good gummie. Is that the word in German?”
“That means sneaker,” Judit said. “Like a tennis shoe.” They continued up the hill together.
Judit had no idea where Shaindel led her. They might not even be in Loschwitz anymore. Identical five-story concrete apartment blocks reproduced themselves in tiered rows, painted in shades of pastel that were all muddied in the darkness. Shaindel had led her to a dull-pink concrete block. The side was plastered with the usual assortment of pashkevils, and a hand-printed sign in German:
Shaindel gave it a glance. “Oh, that’s for outsiders. We already know that.”
Judit had to keep herself from taking the note out of her pocket for a direct comparison. She said, carefully, “Do you learn to write in German at school?”
“Of course,” Shaindel said. This line of reasoning seemed to try her patience. She urged Judit forward. “You have to go first, or he won’t open the door.”
Then they were in the dark, climbing flight after flight of stairs, and each landing was punctuated by activity, a child shrieking, someone hammering a nail into the wall, the rhythmic throbbing of a washing machine on spin-cycle. Somewhere in there, Shaindel produced a plastic flashlight.
“I got it for my birthday,” Shaindel said. “I always keep it for emergencies. Like in a thunderstorm, or when I go into the sewer.”
“Sewer?” The conversation felt as improbable as the circumstances.
“You find money there,” she said. She kept the faint light just ahead of them as she directed Judit to a battered door with a card wedged into the nameplate. In Latin characters, badly formed, too carefuclass="underline"
Same lettering. She didn’t even have to check it against the note. She heard herself say, “This isn’t the right place,” all the while fighting back whatever was rising in her. Hans could be behind that door. But what if he were someone she couldn’t even recognize?
“Knock,” Shaindel said.
Before Judit could turn around or lift her hand, the door was opened by a short man in a skull-cap with a wild red beard. He wore a caftan that looked as though he’d slept in it. In Yiddish: “You’ve got the wrong apartment.”
He wasn’t the man who left the note. The voice was an octave lower and the shape was all wrong. He looked like an angry dwarf. It was hard for Judit to justify remaining now, but Shaindel made escape more complicated, so she asked, “Do you sell films here?”
“You speak Yiddish like a German,” he said, and like the man in the junk shop, he kept his eyes averted, but he opened the door a little wider. Then he caught sight of Shaindel. “Up to your mischief again?”
Shaindel said, “Uncle Moishe, would it hurt this lady to take a look? She came all the way here. And she’s not going to be all sexy.”
“Who taught you to talk like that, Shaindel?” Moses Kravitz said. He gazed at some middle distance, and with a small wave, motioned them inside. He closed and latched the door. “I’m overloaded, lady. Every day new shipments. You want, you take.”
The kitchen table was littered with bright slipcases of videos, some German, some French, most American. Judit knew just enough English to decipher a few titles: Top Gun, An Officer and a Gentleman. Some of the cases still held videos, and some were empty and propped up to display their lurid, shabby covers. Through the door, Judit could see a bathroom stacked floor-to-ceiling with loose, black tapes, tapes in the bathtub, tapes piled on the toilet and leaning against the wall.
Now that the door was closed, Kravitz seemed more inclined to engage Judit in conversation, and his tiny eyes flashed up like needles. “I get plenty of men here but never ladies. Maybe you want a little something for your husband. Maybe he sent you. Or maybe,” he said, “you have your own little collection.”
Shaindel said, “She wants to see the room where that man was.”
Judit was speechless. Moses Kravitz frowned and shook his head. Judit could tell that he was reassessing her. She wasn’t Stasi. He’d met those types before. She wasn’t a prostitute. No prostitute would wear that coat. What was she then? Judit watched him flick through those limited categories and wondered if he’d come to a conclusion that would make him take out a gun. He probably owned one.
Shaindel tugged at Judit’s sleeve, and said, in clear German: “Isn’t that what you want? To see the room? He’s gone now.”
“Good riddance,” Kravitz said. “He drove away my other customers.”
“Was he a bad man?” Shaindel asked.
“He was like all men,” Kravitz said. “He wasn’t good, he wasn’t bad. When he first came here, he was scared of his own shadow. An outsider.”
Shaindel added, “He would watch movies all the time. That’s all he did. The sexy movies.”
Judit asked, carefully, “Where is he now?”
Kravitz shrugged and answered in Yiddish. “What’s he to you? He owes me money. You want to pay his bills?”
Now she felt she had little choice, and hadn’t come prepared. In her wallet she had maybe thirty Judenmarks, a twenty and assorted singles. She took the money out. She knew that Kravitz wouldn’t touch her hand, so she laid it on a pile of videotapes. He twisted his mouth into that full red beard, and put the money in his pocket.
Shaindel watched this exchange with fascination and horror, and she broke in: “Uncle Moishe, can’t you tell she’s a pauper? Look at the way she’s dressed. No one with money wears clothes like that.”
Kravitz ignored her, and said to Judit, “I can show you his whole collection. It’s right here.” He pointed to a box in plain sight, an overwhelming assortment of reels and videos, some in cases, some loose and clearly broken, and because she wasn’t sure what else to do, Judit sorted through the pile. Old habit overcame her, and by examining even the loose material she could estimate the age and country of origin: French, Soviet, American, and a few Bundist standards.
Then she pulled out a canister that was clearly marked. She held it in her hand for a little too long.
Shaindel peered at the label. “What’s that?”
“Shaindel, that’s not for you!” Kravitz said. “You shouldn’t see that kind of movie.”
“Is it dirty?” Shaindel asked.
“The gentleman in question, well, let’s just say it must have been his favorite. He looked at it all the time.” Then, to Judit, “You want me to set up the projector?”
“I can run the film myself,” Judit said. She’d spoken German, but Kravitz had no trouble understanding her. He backed off, and studied her again.